Asphyxia
by ancazur
Summary: The past is a suffocation that you never revive from, a constant reminder of a persona you've suppressed. It takes only one stark reminder for it to bubble to the surface and choke you again with its flood of memories. (BxL backstory.)
1. Prologue

_Japan_

_2004_

The university exams had been insulting. L would achieve the highest score with little effort, right alongside Light Yagami. But they hadn't spoken, not yet. L had studied him during the exams, though, in between the proctor's reprimands for his preferred seated position. He grinned. Just the right amount of genius and eccentricity: Yagami-kun had certainly noticed him.

His ears perked when the door softly creaked open behind him. "L?"

Something was amiss. Watari should have been surveying the Japanese police; it was not time for them to communicate in person. L didn't turn when he spoke. "What is it, Watari?"

Watari was unusually slow in his approach. He crouched beside L and silently stared at his prized detective, as if taking him in. L side-eyed him through his heavy fringe. He didn't know much of nostalgia, but there was no mistaking the wistful look and dried tears caked around Watari's eyes.

"L… Beyond Birthday is dead."

L immediately averted his gaze to the computer screen, refocusing on the charts and graphs for the Kira investigation. He rubbed the back of his head. "Heart attack?"

"Yes."


	2. Chapter One

_Wammy's House_

_1987_

The other children didn't _talk_ to L, much less visit his bedroom. But now he sat on the floor, staring at the newcomer in his doorway. _B_, he called himself. He didn't even waver from the extended pause before L answered—he just _waited_, his eyes partially concealed by a flop of dark brown hair.

L smiled. "Hello, B. I assume you know who I am."

B welcomed himself into the bedroom and surveyed the scattered paperwork over the floor, a mess of old case files and tests developed by Mr. Wammy. He sat across from the young detective without invitation, then selected a folder at random.

"Excuse me," L said, sitting up straight, "but you cannot just—"

"It was the daughter," B said flippantly, tossing the folder aside. L glanced at the documents while B reached for another case—yes, he had come to the same conclusion. "Suicide." B rummaged through the pile, glancing at each case briefly before providing the resolution: Blackmail; the maid; jealous husband. "Got anything challenging?" He pushed the stack aside. "Aren't you supposed to be the world's smartest person or something?"

L stared as the boy leaned back and stretched his legs, his feet nearly touching L's curled toes. He was obviously smart, but it wasn't solely because he went through the files with ease—L could have done that himself, if he wanted to show off. L scooted back and tugged down on his long sleeves, meeting B's intense gaze with his own impassive one. But B didn't back down: He had a strange, possessive look in his eyes, like he understood things that L himself didn't know.

"Do you play chess?" L asked.

"Chess against the great L?" He smiled. "Where do I sign up?"

L reached beneath his bed and slid out the chessboard. "I will be white," he said, studying his king before setting it into place. B gathered the black pieces without protest. After L completed setting up his side, he hugged his knees and watched B scrutinize the board. He was dusting off his side with the hem of his T-shirt before setting each piece in the exact center of its appropriate square. They were all equally aligned and facing the same direction, staring down the white side.

L gnawed on his thumbnail. "Are you ready to begin?" he asked impatiently.

B raised his eyes, a brief look of annoyance replaced with one of amusement. "Go ahead," he said, waving a hand over the board.

The detective hadn't wanted to go first. He knew nothing of B, so it was impossible to detect his movements. In the short amount of time studying him, he had only gathered that the boy had obsessive-compulsive tendencies and deep-set anger. _When I win this game_, L thought, _he will not be pleased._

L stared at his pawns, trying to determine whether he would allow B to win. This could develop into a valuable friendship. B had never specified _why_ he moved into Wammy's House, but it was clear that he was a replacement successor after A—anyone could have seen that; intellect was not required.

If L won, then B could get angry. That would ultimately work against him.

But if B won, it would be obvious that L allowed him to win.

L pressed his index finger to the head of a pawn, rocking it slightly in its square. _But what if B wins on his own?_ He couldn't reject the possibility.

"This is boring," B said, when he still hadn't moved. Immediately L slid a pawn forward and sat back, satisfied. But B did not hesitate to do the same on his own side, with the same piece.

_He's mirroring my movements_. It wasn't good strategy, but it provided a diversion. Neither of them could sense the other's skill from the first move, and B had deliberately thrown away his turn so he could study L's tactics. _But he who makes the first move always wins_. L shook his head, allowing his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

"Boys?" Their heads jerked toward the doorway; they hadn't noticed Mr. Wammy's approach. He smiled, staring at them over his glasses. "I'm glad you're spending time with each other, but it's time for supper. You can continue to play after you eat."

"I'm not hungry," L said. Truthfully, he was starving. But he was also confused: Mr. Wammy always brought food to his room, and now he was empty-handed. Did he expect them to eat with the other children? L hadn't dined in the cafeteria for months.

"There is strawberry shortcake for dessert," Mr. Wammy added.

B grinned, standing and brushing non-existent dirt off the back of his jeans. "Let's go, L," he said, holding out a hand. "We can finish later."

B's hand was clean, he knew, but L still had no desire to accept his help. He stood on his own, tugging down on the hem of his shirt. Rejected, B shoved his hands into his pockets and turned toward the bedroom door.

"I need to use the bathroom," L said, unmoved from his spot.

B turned to narrow his eyes at him, but Mr. Wammy only nodded. "You can meet us in the cafeteria, then," he said, putting a hand on his new successor's shoulder. "Let's go, B." L waited, listening for their faded footsteps down the hall, before crouching to examine his opponent's side of the chessboard.

B had dusted down his side of the board—it _had_ been dusty, being stored under the bed—and L noticed just how perfectly his pieces were lined up. He quickly calculated that they were each in the exact center of their respective squares, including the pawn that he had so flippantly slid into place. He glanced at his own side. Also neat, but not to the same degree. He scanned the floor, hoping B had left behind some trace of his existence, but there was nothing. There didn't even look to be a smudge on the hardwood floor where he had set his hands. Sighing, L stood. He _was_ getting hungry, and he couldn't deny curiosity over B's eating technique. Maybe he could study him and learn how to properly use a knife.

For good measure, L stopped in the lavatory to flush a toilet and wash his hands before trudging downstairs to the cafeteria. There was an empty seat across from B, at a table near the kitchen entrance, which he would be unwise to refuse. B grinned as he sat.

"I thought you were lying about the bathroom," B said, "but I listened for the toilet flushing. I thought you were going to cheat at our game."

"I wouldn't cheat," L said. "It would be too obvious this early in the game."

B chuckled as one of the orphanage's matrons served their dinner. L wasn't in the mood for the chicken cutlets _or_ the broccoli and mashed potatoes. But there was the promise of strawberry shortcake afterward, so he awkwardly picked up his silverware and tried to cut his piece of chicken. B wasn't doing any better, which secretly pleased him—but at least he had a decent grip on the knife, even if he held it more like a dagger. If there wasn't the table between them, B could have easily stabbed him.

Mr. Wammy approached their table, sighing as he pried the knife from L's hand. He readjusted it, setting L's index finger along the top edge, and walked away without word. B snickered, studying his broccoli as he carefully sliced through it. L stared at his hand with a scowl, then set the silverware on the table to pick up the cutlet with his hands.

"That's gross," B said after swallowing.

"It's effective," L replied, his mouth full of chewed-up chicken.

There _had_ been other children seated at their table, but they wolfed down their food and scurried to the playground. Children at the other tables were blatantly staring, though L couldn't determine if they stared at _him_ or were curious about the newcomer. B would certainly be blacklisted now, having been seen spending time with the weird kid.

"Hmm." L finished off his chicken, then curled a fist around his fork to scoop the mashed potatoes. "You have heard they arrested the man responsible for the Knightsbridge robbery." B peered up from his plate. "It is now considered to be one of the largest robberies in history."

B shrugged and sliced off another piece of chicken. "Doesn't really count if they didn't get away with it. It was messy. Could've done better."

L nodded in agreement. "They found the leader from a bloody fingerprint."

"_Messy_." B shuttered, as if personally offended. "If I were a robber, I'd make sure not to leave anything behind. None of my stuff and _definitely_ none of my fingerprints. It was stupid."

"But they obtained sixty million pounds."

"But they were _caught_."

L shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. B was correct, of course, but he wanted to pick his brain. The heist was the topic of discussion in all the newspapers, and it had come up several times in their classes. L had been tracking it for months, studying their methods and marveling how smart they had been—and how they had nearly succeeded.

"He received twenty-two years in prison," L said, as if that settled the debate.

B speared a piece of broccoli with his fork. "Didn't have to be _anything_, if they did it right."

L was already weary of the conversation. All he wanted now was take his strawberry shortcake to his room. But they had a chess game to finish—B wouldn't let him out of _that. _After dinner, they were permitted to take their dessert from the cafeteria and hightail it back to the boys' dormitory wing.

Most of the other children were also finished with supper, so the hall was crowded with chattering boys. L and B remained silent as they rushed toward L's room, but L couldn't block out the stares and cackles as they passed. "He's so weird," they whispered, when they thought he couldn't hear. "What a dweeb." None of it made sense to him. Wasn't Wammy's House _intended_ for intelligent children? So why was _he_, the most intelligent of them all, persistently the subject of their taunting?

L slammed the door shut once he and B entered the room.

"You're not very popular around here," B said, sitting cross-legged on L's bed. "They call you weird names."

"They're intimidated by my intelligence." L sat on the floor, cradling his cake.

"No wonder. You won't make friends if you're always talking about how much smarter you are."

L stared at the chess game, wondering if there would ever be an end to it, or if they would play the same strategy against each other for the rest of their lives—mirrored movements; no clear winner. "I won't lie to make friends," he said. "I'd rather have no friends at all."

B stared at him; there was a small smudge of whipped cream on the corner of his lip. To L's surprise, he said, "I like you." There wasn't much others could say to surprise L, and the prospect of someone _liking_ him was new. "We can be friends, if you want."

L held his fork precariously between two fingers as he raked it through the whipped cream. "Let's finish our chess game first," he said, smiling at his dessert. "Our friendship is likely, but not if I find you boring."

He knew that B would enjoy such an answer, and his deduction was quickly confirmed: His new successor chuckled. "You're on, _dweeb_."


	3. Chapter Two

_Wammy's House_

_1993_

The number of bombings that had occurred in rapid succession piqued L's interest. The newspapers claimed they weren't connected—not that the general public was aware of _anything_, journalists included—but L had picked up on a number of similarities. He sat on the floor before his computer, staring so closely that his nose nearly touched the screen. Yes, it was possible that—

A door slammed somewhere down the hall, rattling both his walls and his concentration. L closed his eyes and began to count down.

_3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . ._

His door flew open and Beyond stood at the threshold, thrusting a piece of paper at him. "This is the stupidest assignment he's ever given me!" He slammed the door and strode over, dropping the assignment on L's lap. L glanced at it noncommittally. "I _know_ this shite! I want a _real_ case."

L stared at the paper curiously as Beyond ranted. He paced the room, cracking his knuckles and kicking any unfortunate objects in his path. "Yes, I solved the McIntyre murders several months ago," L said, pulling his candy bowl toward him as Beyond passed again. "Mr. Wammy is simply testing you."

"I don't need his bloody tests."

"Sit down," L said, turning back to his computer. He held up the candy bowl. "Have some jelly babies."

He flopped beside L, gritting his teeth as he tried to look over his shoulder. But L had already switched windows to his email contacts, most of which were Wammy's students. Beyond lay down and stretched his arms over his head, arching his back until it cracked audibly. He grabbed a handful of jelly babies.

"These are disgusting," Beyond said, but continued to drop them into his mouth one by one.

L pulled up the bombing data again, now unconcerned about B looking over his shoulder. With his ranting done, for the moment, L could continue to analyze data. Beyond wouldn't care. It was their usual song and dance—B muttering to himself, L tinkering away at the keys. The warm body lying beside him had become customary.

"Hey, L."

His tone of voice was suddenly composed, a stark difference from their typical banter. L turned, watching as Beyond sat up on his elbows and met his gaze. His eyes glinted, slightly crazed, but this was not out of the ordinary.

"Yes?"

Beyond hesitated before asking, "Wammy's never going to give me a real case, is he?"

His duties weren't something that L discussed with his handler, but he had come to the same conclusion. "You are my back-up," he replied. "It's not necessary to have two people doing the same job."

His shoulders slumped, but the fire in his eyes glowed brighter. "So I only get to do something interesting when you kick the bucket."

"Well… yes." He shrugged.

Beyond's eyes wandered, staring first above L's head—L _still_ hadn't figured out why he did that—then flitted to his face before he flopped to the floor again. L popped a jelly baby into his mouth. Beyond had closed his eyes, and L began to study him instead of his data: B folded his hands behind his head, his chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply.

"But your job is important as well," L continued. "You have received the same training I have."

"Yeah, but you're not _training_ anymore. I don't need to, either."

L quickly turned to the computer when Beyond opened his eyes. But he couldn't concentrate; he _knew_ he was being watched, and he knew that Beyond was staring over his head, again. He pulled up his legs, resting his chin on folded knees as the click of computer keys echoed through the room. Beyond eventually grumbled and left, much to his relief.

Beyond had become increasingly agitated as started to understand that he was a back-up—_only_ a back-up, in his words. They see each other often, as work and training didn't allow for recreation, but they made time to eat together on occasion (when they bothered to eat) or play a rare game of chess.

L stared over his monitor at the chess board against the far wall, mid-game and collecting dust. They hadn't touched it in several months. He looked back down at the charts on his computer screen. _Perhaps this can wait_, he thought, closing down all window and locking down the computer.

L stretched out his stiff limbs as he rose from the floor. It was obvious he had been slacking off in physical training; he would have to request Mr. Wammy provide a new regimen. But right now, he aimed to attempt friendship.

Beyond was seldom anywhere but his bedroom; avoiding the other children was something they had in common. His door was cracked open so L knocked lightly, sticking his head in. Beyond lay face-up on the bed, eyes wide open as he stared at the ceiling.

Beyond's living quarters were nothing to brag about. If L's room was sparse, then Beyond's was desolate. There was a small desk and a bed—only one sheet covered the mattress, not even a blanket—and L knew that all his clothes were stored neatly in the closet. He had seen Beyond's filing system once, too, in his desk drawer: everything was labeled and color-coded, though he hadn't had time to examine it before Beyond slammed the drawer shut. It was a not-so-subtle reminder to respect his privacy, and L had complied.

Slowly, Beyond craned his neck toward the door. Only L's head was visible; his backside still stuck out into the hallway. "You can come in," Beyond drawled. L slipped in and shut the door behind him.

"I'm sorry you're not happy," L said, curling a hand over the doorknob pressed to his back—in case he had to escape.

"Oh, for the love of . . . get over here." Beyond sat up and slid over to make room. L's focus flitted from Beyond—he had calmed down, at least—to the vacated spot on the mattress. Reluctantly, he sat cross-legged on the other side of the bed. He had never been on another person's bed. The experience was disappointingly boring: The mattress felt like his own, though the sheet was softer. L dug his fingers into the fabric. There was a high probability that he had the linens washed more often than most.

"I get new sheets every day," Beyond said, staring at L's hand.

He pulled both hands into his lap. "Every day? They allow that?"

"They do if you complain enough."

Beyond had always been an enigma, but he had become more and more unpredictable lately. L suspected that he did it on purpose just to confuse him. If that was the case, it was working. "So, you are not unhappy?"

"I'm fucking _bored_," Beyond said, slumping against the wall. "This is my entire life, right? Sitting back and getting _training_ and waiting for you to die to make anything of myself. I'm smarter than you are—I can do this _now_. I need to do _something_."

It wasn't the first time that Beyond suggested he was smarter. L hadn't yet confirmed the claim, but wouldn't deny the possibility. Judging by his current juvenile outburst, however, he was incorrect. But L had learned the hard way not to point that out. His jaw throbbed at the thought, still able to feel where his successor had punched him last time he was corrected.

"But it would not make sense for us both to be working," L replied. "If anything were to happen—"

"Yeah, you mentioned that." Beyond said, silencing him. "I guess A had the right idea."

All at once, memories of A's funeral rushed back to L—the plain grave bearing a single letter; the children's hushed chatter as they left him alone at the site. His former successor could have been a friend; A was happy, in the beginning at least. But his unhappiness was unlike B's. One of them was unable to handle the pressure—the other wanted more.

B's fingertips grazed L's knee and he was still talking, but L had drowned him out. Suddenly he was eight years old again, sitting on that newly-packed grave and wondering what was so bad that his former successor—his _friend_—had to take such drastic measures to get out of it.

"A was wrong," L said, cutting off Beyond incessant ranting. "It didn't have to end that way. I— I'm sorry that it did."

Beyond's hands slid from L's knee to his thigh, and he leaned in so close that L felt the warm breath on his mouth when he spoke. "I'm not going to knock myself off. What would that prove?"

With a start, L slinked off the bed and shuffled toward the door. The phantom of Beyond's hand was still on his leg and he wanted to brush it out, to smooth down the denim, but he wouldn't give Beyond the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled him. "If that's all, I must return to work."

"Hey, Lawliet, I—"

L whipped around, wide-eyed. "How do you know that name?"

Beyond went rigid against the wall, his mouth silently working as it attempted to form a response. The slip was obviously unintentional. When he was finally able to speak he sputtered fragments of false tales—something about hacking into Wammy's computers—but he sputtered lies. L's name wasn't recorded; it wouldn't _be_ in Wammy's systems. L stared hard at Beyond as he bounded back to the bed.

"Why don't you try the truth?" He climbed up and straddled B's thigh, one knee dangerously close to his crotch. It wasn't intended as a threat, but Beyond had to glance down only once for L to inch closer. His knee barely brushed the fabric of Beyond's jeans.

"I can't do that," Beyond said, calming down. The all-knowing smirk returned to his lips as he rested both hands around L's thigh. "I can't explain it. I just… know."

L leaned back onto Beyond's leg. He stared at the wall over his shoulder, his mind racing through probable theories. None made sense. It was actually _impossible_ for B to know his name, but he had evidently known it for some time by the casual way he used it. Had they been acquainted _before_ Wammy's House? No, he had a different name then…

Suddenly, Beyond's arms were around his waist and L yelped in surprise as their bodies crashed together.

"Beyond, what are you—" But L was silenced when Beyond gripped him harder, balling the back of his shirt in his fists. Was this some ruse to confuse him? He was pulled closer and _did_ knee Beyond in the crotch, albeit unintentionally, and his forehead slammed into the wall behind him by the force. L instinctively pulled back, but Beyond followed like a leech attached to its host. He pressed his face into L's neck and . . .

_Did he just _kiss _me?_

As if Beyond could read the question on his mind, he did it again. Lips gnawed at his neck and teeth gently grazed his pulse point. Beyond pulled back slightly, rubbing a thumb over the damp spot on L's neck. "You're not stopping me."

"I must go." L wiggled from his grasp and was at the door in two long strides, intent on leaving as quickly as possible. But he stopped and stared at the knob, as if willing it to turn.

"That was stupid." L flinched as Beyond threw something hard against the wall. He didn't want to look down to see what had narrowly missed his head. "Why didn't you sto—"

"No." L shook his head and finally yanked at the doorknob. "No, it wasn't." But he left, slamming the door behind him and hurrying toward his room. The hallway was packed; it was nearing supper time and he fought against the traffic. No one moved out of his way—they deliberately shouldered or shoved him against the wall, laughing as they shouted false apologies. His quarters were not far from Beyond's but the door felt miles away; he tried to dodge the shoves and taunts of the other orphans, but he was outnumbered.

Suddenly there was an arm around his waist, and he wiggled to punch whoever had materialized beside him. "Come on, L." He froze when recognizing Beyond's voice. His pulse pounded in his throat as B gripped him, lowering his head as they fought through the thinning crowd. L was pushed through the bedroom door and he tumbled to the floor, hoping Beyond wouldn't follow. But knew he wouldn't get off so easy.

"Thank you," he mumbled, sitting up.

"I didn't know they hated you _that_ much," Beyond replied, closing the door. "I came after you when you left and they were all pushing you around and… bloody hell, you're pathetic."

L hugged his knees. "Please leave if you've only come to insult me."

"Lay off it, L. If I wanted to torture you I wouldn't have helped you through that mess. I'm here now, so how about we finish that chess game?"

L refused to look at him. He put a hand on his neck—_where he had kissed me—_and turned toward the computer. He was here to _work_. He didn't have time for games or friendship or whatever it was that Beyond had been attempting.

"Fine." Beyond took a step closer. "How about we _not_ think for a while? Turn off that damn computer. You liked it when I kissed you, didn't you?"

L tapped at the keys, refusing to warrant his query with a reply. It had been years since he didn't know how he felt about a situation, so it was better to say nothing at all. He had experienced a sensation of pleasure, but also of revulsion. But now, as Beyond sat behind him and put his hands on his waist, he didn't protest. He didn't _comply_, but he also didn't punch him in the face, so he was nearly consenting to their close proximity.

"I don't like people to touch me," he said, closing down the computer as Beyond rested his chin on his shoulder.

"But you're not threatening my life, so you don't mind."

He shrugged, an awkward gesture with the added weight against him. "I am undecided."

"At least you're not kneeing me in the crotch again."

"You are behind me," L replied. "A smart move. It would be more difficult for me to reach." He watched Beyond's arms encircle his waist. He then glanced at the bedroom door. "You locked it."

"Obviously." His laughter was harsh against L's ear. "Those idiots don't need more fuel for their fire."

L cautiously covered Beyond's hand with his own, running his fingertips across the skin to feel the contour of his bones. He traced his arm to the elbow and back down, over and over, tilting his head slightly as Beyond began to kiss his neck again.

"I don't need this," L said, twisting around to face him. Beyond wrapped his legs around his hips to draw him closer, tugging at the hem of L's T-shirt to pull it over his head. L withdrew slightly; the combination of his near-nakedness and his gaunt frame bringing a blush to his face. As Beyond grabbed at his biceps, it was evident there was a hidden strength beneath the pale, lanky figure.

"I don't need _you_," Beyond replied, a growl deep in his throat as he gripped him harder.

L flexed his arms, refusing to succumb to the other boy's strength. "I am aware," he said. In one move, L grabbed the back of Beyond's collar and yanked his shirt over his head. He then leaned in, pressing his lips to Beyond's ear. "Tell me how you know my name," he whispered.

Beyond dug his nails into L's shoulder blades. "Guess." But rather than let him to speak he hastily kissed him, biting down on L's lip to taste the tang of blood mixed with the sugary remnants of his tongue.


	4. Chapter Three

_New York, New York_

_1997_

_Isn't New York supposed to be the greatest city in the world?_ It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and L stared over the city from his penthouse window. People around the world dreamed of visiting New York; he himself had been mildly intrigued to escape the confines of Winchester. But he was here to investigate a serial killer, and there were no shortage of shootings and robberies on the local news channel, so L had to wonder why this city was so appealing. He had heard of the romanticism of the Big Apple, but it was clear that these dreamers did not pay attention to the news.

_That's my job_, he thought mournfully. _I'm supposed to protect them._

The room phone rang and he immediately answered.

"False alarm," Watari said on the other end. "The team has been waiting for an hour, but no one has showed up."

"Impossible." L flounced to the plush couch, madly rustling through a stack of documents on the coffee table. "The next murder was supposed to be tonight. It's systematic. She never breaks ritual; it's been exactly four days since the last—"

"L." Watari's voice was unnaturally composed. "It was only an estimation. Please get some rest and we'll review this in the morning."

He slammed the phone onto the receiver. It was _not_ an estimation—if the suspect followed her usual routine, the next victim would have been kidnapped and murdered by two o'clock a.m. that very night. But there _was_ the possibility that the victim resisted, and . . .

L shook his head. There was no way he'd be able to sleep. He pulled on his sneakers and headed out into the bustle of New York.

No one would bother him. He passed prospective pickpockets, streetwalkers, and teenagers just looking for a fight. His clothes were more rumpled than usual and he hadn't slept in four days, so he hunched over and rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes to blend into the scenery. It wasn't a difficult act to adopt.

But as he rounded the corner onto Broadway, he was conscious of someone following him. No, not following, simply . . . _watching_. He balled his hands into fists. But as he continued walking, he could hear the heavy footsteps behind him. _Deliberate _heavy footsteps, like his follower _wanted_ to be noticed. He turned onto a side street, waiting to see his companion's shadow stretch before him under a dim convenience store light. Then he spun around, punching the man in the chest. No one even stopped to look.

His victim stumbled, holding a hand over his heart. "Oi, Lawliet!" he said between gasps. "Is that how you greet all your old friends?"

L blinked rapidly, quickly focusing on the face that came into view. But he could never forget that voice, and there was only person who would dare to call him by that name (and he still had no idea _how_ he was aware of it). "_Beyond?_ Do I ask _why_ you're here?"

Beyond stood upright, twisting his back until it cracked into place. "Tracking you down, of course."

"But there is no possibility you could've known I'd be here."

He rubbed the sore spot on his chest. "Don't be stupid. We have our methods."

A crowd surged around them—still a _crowd_, at three o'clock in the morning—and L thought back to Wammy's House, with Beyond, fighting through the taunts and jeers. Here, at least, everyone ignored them.

"I was going to the diner," L said, making up a reason for his escape from work. He resented how easily he fell into old habits—with anyone else, he wouldn't _need_ an excuse. Beyond was the only one who had the ability to turn the tables. "Would you like to join me?"

He shrugged. "Might as well, since I'm here."

L turned swiftly, searching for the first twenty-four-hour dining establishment he could find. They found a diner only two blocks down and L requested a booth, deliberately exiling them from the other patrons. Occupied tables were filled with clubbers or university students; neither group bothered the other. L huddled into the corner of their booth, facing the door, as Beyond wiped down his vinyl cushion with a moist towelette. Satisfied, he finally sat.

"If you wanted to take me on a date," Beyond said, staring at his open menu, "it would've been easier when we lived in the same country."

L closed his menu and watched as Beyond scanned his meal options. "Do you want to share why you're here?"

"I already told you." He, too, closed his menu, and met L's stare across the table. "I wanted to find you."

"For what purpose?"

The waiter came by to take their orders, obnoxiously perky despite the awful hour. He was clearly an aspiring actor, all smiles and overexaggerated hand flourishes as he took their orders—one chocolate ice cream sundae, extra sprinkles; one side order of french fries. When he inquired whether Beyond wanted a main dish to accompany his meal, he received a curt "No" and the waiter disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

L remained silent, waiting for an answer. Finally, Beyond sat back and crossed his arms. "I thought maybe you wondered why I left Wammy's."

"The thought crossed my mind, but that was many years ago. You could have contacted me sooner if you believed I might be concerned."

There was a lull in conversation as the waiter came by, again, with their waters. L regretted that he hadn't ordered something more interesting to drink, but preferred to wait for Beyond's answer rather than flag down the flamboyant waiter.

"You wanted me to call you at _Wammy's_?"

"Mmm." L removed the drooping lemon slice from the rim of his glass. "You have a point."

L had mostly determined _why_ Beyond had disappeared in the middle of the night, but wouldn't admit that he'd been slightly wounded that he'd left without a word. His successor hadn't been happy for many years, and there was no way he would get any "real work"—his words—without L dying. Contacting Wammy's House would, for Beyond's sake, be the worst idea.

After all, they hadn't found a replacement successor. They would have accepted him back without a second thought, or bribed him to return.

"So you _were_ concerned?" Beyond grinned, peeling the wrapper from his straw.

"I didn't say that."

"Don't think you can lie to me. I know how that brain works." He leaned over to tap two fingers again L's temple. L stiffened; aside from physical combat, no one had touched him in over four years—the first and last being the man seated across from him. Beyond leaned back again. "This is the last time you'll hear from me," he said.

"How disappointing," L deadpanned.

"Well, you'll hear _of_ me later. A mind like this doesn't go to waste." He tapped his own temple. "But I can't be _you,_ right? Not unless I kill you, and that's no fun."

"I appreciate the sentiment. Besides, you are no longer in the running for my successorship."

Despite the bustle of the diner, Beyond lowered his voice and leaned over the center of the table. "You think that's all that matters in this world? Succeeding the great L?"

"That is what many aspire to."

Beyond scoffed. "You're blinded by your own pride. You always had a big ego, but I thought you'd grow out of that. _Hoped_, actually—the chances of _you_ being modest are only twelve percent."

Beyond was clearly mocking him. L wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but at that moment he didn't have to—the waiter returned with their orders, and L eyed his ice cream sundae as it was set before him.

"Anything else?" The waiter chirped.

L stared at Beyond as he dismissed the waiter with a, "No, thank you." His former successor was now slathering his french fries in ketchup, which went against his obsessive-compulsive tendencies. He unwrapped his utensils to retrieve the fork, stabbing at the bloody mess of fries.

"You aren't one to talk of pride," L said, digging a spoon into his sundae.

"You think I don't know that? But I had to figure it out on my own. I don't need that place to tell me how smart I am, and I don't need to sit around and wait for _you_ to croak to make a name for myself. They wouldn't know who I am, anyway—they'd still believe I was _you_."

He was correct, of course. L wasn't a name, it was a title; future successors should be honored to claim his identity. He had learned many years ago that this wouldn't work for Beyond. It was only a matter of time until he snapped, though L didn't know exactly what that would entail. Leaving Wammy's was not the breakdown itself, simply the foundation.

Beyond reached over and plucked the cherry from L's sundae. "That was mine," L pouted, watching it disappear between Beyond's teeth.

"You didn't complain before," he said with a smirk. "Hey, you find a new boyfriend?"

"We were not boyfriends." L shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. "I do not have time for such trivialities." It wasn't possible that Beyond had taken all this effort tracking him down just to taunt him. L watched him consume his french fries; though the plate itself was a mess he still managed to eat neatly and carefully. There was no trace of ketchup on his face, and the fork barely touched his lips before disappearing into his mouth. L averted his gaze to the other diner patrons.

"Would you like to return to my room with me?" L asked, watching a table of college students across the room.

"That's the spirit." Beyond smirked. "I knew you had it in you."

L narrowed his eyes at him. "Not for that purpose. There is something you wish to discuss, and it cannot be in public. I would rather converse with you in the privacy of my hotel room than continue this conversation filled with vague references."

Beyond stabbed a french fry with his fork, holding it up to admire it before folding it into his mouth. L tapped his foot impatiently as he slowly chewed, then swallowed with an exaggerated gulp. "You're no fun anymore."

"I was never _fun_."

"C'mon, finish your ice cream. Then we can play."

Beyond watched as L complied, never one to deny his sweets. He was sitting with his feet up on the booth's cushion, leaning his torso between his legs to reach the table. And that stupid way he held his spoon—between thumb and forefinger, like it was dirty and he wanted to touch as little of it as possible. He was never very good with silverware. But even when they were at Wammy's, he had never looked so _awkward_. Had Beyond ever seen him outside the orphanage? Was this some sort of social aversion, a method of hiding himself in public?

There was still a lot to learn about his former predecessor.

L paid the bill—Beyond let him, knowing the money came from Wammy anyway—and they walked back to the hotel. The streets weren't as crowded as earlier: At four thirty in the morning, the clubbers had mostly gone to sleep and the nine-to-fivers hadn't awoken yet. Or was it Saturday? L couldn't recall; seldom did he have any indication of days. That would require a regular sleep schedule.

L called Watari from the hotel elevator, but it went straight to voicemail. Apparently he had taken his own advice and gone to sleep. He left a message, instructing his handler not to disturb him until noon. Watari would assume he had finally slept, and perhaps he _would_ get a few hours in. Later, right before lunchtime.

Beyond whistled softly as they entered the elaborate hotel room, quickly taking in the space. L never took much notice of his surroundings, and B resisted the urge to lecture him about what he took for granted. When you haven't spent nights in the street and run-down hostels, you don't know how good you have it. He eyed the mini bar, but couldn't swipe anything with L watching. All the liquor was probably still in there, untouched, which was a damn shame.

Instead, Beyond claimed one of the plush couches, with L's laptop still set up on the coffee table before him. Even though the computer had been locked and encrypted—not that this meant Beyond _couldn't_ get into it—L swiped the computer off the table and closed the lid. He slipped off his sneakers before crouching on an armchair, and Beyond didn't fail to notice that the detective wasn't wearing socks. _Sneakers_, with _no socks_. He scowled.

"You don't have to tell me why you left Wammy's House," L said, hugging his knees and staring across the table at Beyond. "I was unsurprised when you disappeared."

"That's why I didn't tell anyone." Beyond slung his arms over the back of the couch. "Wammy's didn't care about _me_; they cared about the title. You'll find someone else to be your prized successor."

"A new successor hasn't been selected yet."

Beyond smirked. "So you finally decided that system didn't work? Old man Wammy should've figured _that_ out when A knocked himself off. He took a real risk with me, didn't he? What if he had the blood of _two_ dead successors on his hands?"

"You are emotionally stronger than A was. You would not commit suicide over such a trivial reason as stress." L's smooth composure was irritating. When Beyond didn't respond, he added, "Now that we are within these highly-secure walls, you can share why you followed me."

L wouldn't rest until he got an honest answer, but how could Beyond possible reply? He had been keeping up with L's cases as much as he could, and was genuinely surprised that the detective left England—let alone Wammy's House—at all. He had a host of contacts to do the dirty work for him, but there must have been something about the New York serial murders that drew him to the city itself.

No, there was nothing special about this case. Beyond could _tell_ him who the killer was, but L wouldn't accept it. He'd want to solve it on his own.

"I wanted to say goodbye," Beyond said, sitting up straight. "You would've tried to make me stay if I said anything before leaving, so I prevented that emotional exchange by saying nothing at all. I owed you this, at least."

L frowned deeply. "You owe me nothing," he said. "You always made that clear."

"So I felt like being nice, all right?"

"Incorrect. You have been checking up on me. You knew I stayed at this hotel, and you have been lurking since I arrived in New York—waiting for me to leave the building, obviously, as tonight was the first time I have done so since checking in. You are disappointed that I'm not distraught over your disappearance from the orphanage even though you, of anyone, understand that I do not make emotional connections. But you needed an excuse to see me, so you fabricated a lie that you wanted to 'say goodbye' when you were really curious about how I am. You could have simply called, if that were the case. I do like a good chat."

_What an ass_, Beyond thought. "What else, Lawliet?"

L gritted his teeth. "And you will still will not tell me how you know that name."

"That's true."

"And you anticipate sleeping with me before I request that you leave."

Beyond nodded. "Well, I came all this way."

L vaulted over the coffee table, silently landing on both feet between Beyond's spread legs. Beyond had almost forgotten how nimble he was. "Watari will wake me in seven hours. During that time, I am required to sleep as well."

"Aww, it'll be like old times. I've missed cuddling with you, baby." He wrapped his arms around L's waist, pressing his face into his stomach to breathe in his sickeningly sweet scent. L cupped the crown of his head, running his lanky fingers through Beyond's hair.

"Then you will leave?" L asked, pulling slightly on his hair to force Beyond to look up at him.

His former successor smiled a little: An actual smile, not one of malice and mockery. "You'll never see me again. I promise."

* * *

L woke to blinding sunlight, rolling onto his side to squint at the alarm clock: 10:47 a.m. He stared at the slight indentation beside him, resting his palm on the recently-vacated pillow. It hadn't been empty long.

Not that he expected a farewell, but he still checked the nightstand and the coffee table when he crawled out of bed. He rubbed his jaw; his mouth ached and his thighs were sore and all he wanted was a cup of coffee. Rather than wait for Watari to appear, he fidgeted with the room's instant coffee pot. Enough sugar would drown out the taste of sludge.

_You'll never see me again._

When Watari arrived at twelve o'clock precisely, L was crouched in the armchair cradling an empty cup of coffee. He had long since scraped out the undissolved sugar, leaving smudged fingerprints along the bottom of the cup.

"L?" Watari tentatively approached. "Is everything all right?"

L stared at his handler, the man who took him in and knew all his secrets. He waited so long to reply that Watari settled on the couch—exactly where Beyond had been, filling the void. L nodded. "I encountered Beyond Birthday."

Watari's eyes widened, his glasses sliding down his nose. "This is unexpected. What did he have to say?"

L swiped his forefinger along the inside of his cup, searching for any remaining sugar that he knew wasn't there. "Nothing of importance; we only passed in the street. But I plan to track his movements. He is a threat." L stared into his cup to avoid witnessing the slump of Watari's shoulders, the pain hidden behind his spectacles.


	5. Chapter Four

_Los Angeles_

_2002_

L knew that Naomi Misora would solve the case.

Beyond had always been too proud; only L would be a possible threat to his intelligence. That was the primary reason he didn't take to the field himself—L _knew_ that Beyond was behind the Wara Ningyo murders, but confidence alone wasn't enough to convict him. Beyond had set up the "impossible case," but L had previously determined the murderer. It was never going to _be_ impossible.

It wasn't a coincidence that L encountered Misora at the subway station. He had waited for her to leave the hospital before attacking, and her capoeira skills were most impressive. It greatly helped to see the movements in person rather than in videos. She had wanted to arrest him, but introducing himself with his new alias—Ryuzaki—had completely thrown her off. He shuffled away in the direction of the hospital, smiling, leaving her a little dumbfounded.

Watari had wanted to accompany him, but he preferred to go alone. He couldn't confirm whether Beyond Birthday would be lucid, but it was unknown how much longer L would be in Los Angeles. He couldn't wait for him to be transferred to prison; the extent of his burns made it impossible to estimate his healing time.

His private room still smelled like burned flesh. L stood at the doorway and stared at his mummified body, the door automatically sliding shut behind him. Beyond's eyes were closed, but that didn't necessarily mean he was sleeping. L quietly pulled up a chair and sat beside his head, taking in what he could see of his appearance. Bandages covered most of his body, though his face was partially exposed. Oxygen tubes were stuck into his nostrils. Very little skin was actually visible; what he could see peeking through gaps in the bandages was still blackened. L studied him, trying to discern familiarity, but the damage was too extensive.

"L." The single letting rattled in Beyond's throat; the voice was unfamiliar. His eyes opened slowly, and the familiarity L sought revealed itself—his eyes remained unchanged. L stood, not wanting Beyond to move any more than he had to in order to look at him. "I should have won."

"This is not a case of winning or losing," L said, staring unblinking into those familiar eyes.

"Bullshit. Stop . . . gloating." His chest rattled as he tried to breathe deeply.

"Do you require anything?"

L reached for the button to call the nurse, but Beyond grunted. "Not from you."

Before L could elaborate the monitors started to beep wildly, alerting the hospital staff of his rapidly-accelerated heart rate. Two nurses bustled into the room; one ushered L out while the other fiddled with the monitors. L skidded back to dodge the nurse's touch.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "You'll have to come back later." But Beyond was fighting to sit upright against the nurse's protests, commanding her to forbid "that man" from ever visiting again. Even if L couldn't hear all the words, the seething glare was proof enough as the door slid shut. L stared at the wall, listening for the calm of the monitors, before dismissing himself from the ward.

* * *

L had complied with Beyond's wishes while he remained in the hospital, but returned to Los Angeles after his prison transfer. When he was guided into the solitary confinement cell, Beyond wasn't surprised that he had managed to arrange a private visit. The army of heavily-armed guards outside the cell were visible as the door closed behind him.

But Beyond, seated in a far corner on the floor, didn't look up from his scratching into a notebook. He had glanced at his visitor briefly when the door opened, determined his identity by his feet alone (sneakers, no socks), and looked back down at his work. This moment of silence allowed L to look around the cell—its walls were scrawled with seemingly random words and numbers; there was more than one elaborately-drawn _L_ amongst the scribbles.

"I am surprised they allowed you a writing implement," L said, trying to decipher a fragment of the text. His handwriting was more illegible than L's himself.

"Good behavior, I guess." Beyond slammed the notebook closed. "I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to see you again. But I shouldn't be surprised. You always did what you wanted, anyway."

"As did you." L sat on the bed. It was like sitting on a piece of plywood, but at least he couldn't feel the springs through the mattress. Beyond finally sat up, stretching his legs out as he leaned against the wall.

It was the first time L could see the entirety of his face. The hospital had attempted reconstructive surgery, but there were no known photos of him. They did the best they could. His nose was too short, and his lips a perpetual scowl. It was awful. But the eyes never changed. L trained himself to only look at his eyes.

He had planned a number of conversations on his way to the prison, but none felt suitable now. This wasn't the same hardheaded boy from Wammy's, who would bully him into finishing a game of chess. Or wrinkled his nose when L didn't use utensils. Or deliberately gouged his nails into his back to draw blood. L rubbed his jaw, recalling the nights that Beyond would sneak into his room after curfew.

"We were never friends," L said, pulling his feet onto the bed. He hugged his knees. "We used each other to satisfy our own needs, but it was not friendship."

L waited for Beyond's snide response, but he remained silent. Instead, he crawled onto the bed and rested a hand on L's. The skin was too smooth, too artificial—nothing in his touch felt familiar. Touching him was a calculated move to jar him, but L wouldn't flinch. "People like us don't _have_ friends. We're childish and evil. In the unlikely chance that things had turned out different—I would be _dead_, first of all; thanks a lot for that—it would be the same bullshit." He pulled his hand away. "We provided a false sense of security for each other, pretending that we cared. We didn't _care_. I hung around you because everyone else was boring, and you hung around me because you didn't understand me. We were pawns in our own games, but when you're a kid you don't get that."

"We coped with the loneliness of childhood by falsely trusting that we were companions." L sighed heavily. "As an adult, friendship matters less."

"We were never real kids, you know."

L nodded. "Yes, I am aware."

One didn't start solving murder cases at eight years old and live a normal, happy life. He was a robot, a title—_L_—not a human being. He couldn't remain in that cell anymore. L stood quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he moved toward the door.

"And when you _might_ feel the least hint of emotion," Beyond continued, "you run away. Because we're not meant to be emotional; we're machines. We solved the world's greatest problems and had empty sex to fill a void that could never be filled. Face it, Lawliet—you were unhappy, and you hoped little Beyond Birthday could be a friend."

He had intended to signal the guard to open the door but turned around instead, studying the expressionless look on Beyond's bastardized face. "Will you tell me now?" he asked vaguely.

The corner of Beyond's lip twitched. "I can see it. I could always see it." He fluttered a hand over his head. "Everyone's. I see more than you could possibly know, L."

It didn't answer his question, but one day he would learn. He would spend the rest of his life trying to understand Beyond, and it was a battle he would fight willingly. "I am going to Japan. I can't know if I will return, but if I do . . . I will see you again."

"The Kira case, right? I knew you'd take that one." His gaze wandered the graffitied walls, anything to avoid the pathetic look of his predecessor's face. "You won't come back. There's nothing for you here."

L shrugged. "I will be the judge of that."

He nodded to the guard through the small window in the door, silently requesting he be released, but Beyond called his name. He paused as the heavy door swung open. "It's been fun, all right?" Beyond slid back into his corner, staring at his notebook as he spoke. "We may have hated each other, but at least it gave us something to do."

"I never hated you, Beyond."

He snorted.

The guard cleared his throat, inching into the cell to take his arm. "Time is up, Ryuzaki."

Beyond's barking laughter broke the heavy mood in the cell. The guards outside cocked their guns, but L held up a hand for them to resist. He left the cell without looking back, waiting for the sound of the door bolting shut before proceeding down the long, desolate hallway. Despite the soundproof rooms, that laughter still echoed in L's head. He suspected he'd never forget it.

He was not surprised to see a limo waiting for him at the prison gates. Watari hastily stepped out of the driver's side the moment the gates locked behind L.

"Is everything all right, Ryuzaki?" he asked, opening the back door.

"Everything is fine." He climbed in, sitting cross-legged on the backseat. "He is an interesting person. I regret that it ended this way."

"Yes," Watari nodded. "As do I." He closed the door, waiting a few beats before walking around to the driver's side.


	6. Epilogue

_Japan_

_2004_

_Beyond Birthday is dead._

"L?"

His head jerked up. Watari was still crouched beside him, trying to study his reaction. But L's face was an emotionless void as he turned to the computer to analyze the Kira data.

"Thank you, Watari," he said, tinkering at the keys. But rather than excuse himself, Watari sat down on the floor beside him.

"You were close, weren't you?" L shook his head. _Close?_ "You visited him in jail before we came to Japan. That was very nice of you, L."

But L turned away, staring at the far blank wall—ignoring the computer; ignoring his handler; ignoring visions of his former successor that had invaded his memory. "He was an interesting case." Nothing further could be said: They hadn't been _close_, but they had been _something_. "Rivals" was too trivial, like quarreling boys on a playground. A "nemesis" would indicate that one of them was in the wrong, but that was also incorrect—they were terrible people who used each other, and they felt no remorse. And now one of them was dead.

L felt sorrow because he felt no sorrow.

He mourned his lack of compassion.

"He was a murderer," L said, turning back to the screen: Focusing on his current case. "Death is too good for him."

Watari was silent as he stood, only nodding before letting himself out. L was pleased that he hadn't pressed the issue, because he was busy. There was no time in his schedule to reminisce about the past. He rubbed his dry eyes with his fists before dialing into the Task Force headquarters.


End file.
